The Other Harlow Girl Read online

  The duke had to concede the oddness of such behavior. “But I’m sure you misunderstand the matter. Vinnie met the marquess only briefly yesterday and spoke but a few words to him. She would never form a personal dislike based on such insubstantial evidence.”

  “Ah, but that wasn’t their first meeting,” she said, savoring the look of surprise on her husband’s face. “They met a few hours earlier in the conservatory.”

  Trent nodded, as it made sense that Huntly would have been eager to examine the duke’s orchids after so much time away. “The turpentine?”

  “Alas, yes. Another imperfect formula, another exploding hose,” she said with a grin. “Apparently, it burst just as the marquess entered the room and sopped him quite thoroughly.”

  Immediately, Trent’s lips began to twitch, as he imagined Huntly standing in the conservatory with water dripping from his ears. The wet welcome was hardly the triumphant homecoming his friend had been expecting. “So that’s why Felix’s clothes were all wet. He wouldn’t explain.”

  Emma nodded. “Precisely. Lord Huntly’s response to the mishap has been everything that’s gracious and correct. And despite his impeccable behavior, Vinnie has taken an aversion to him.”

  The duke understood now why she thought her sister’s reaction was remarkable. There was definitely something notable in the way Vinnie seemed to have taken a pet over a harmless encounter. “I’m sure your sister’s unusual reaction stems from embarrassment. No doubt she is deeply mortified and would choose to keep her distance from the witness to her humiliation.”

  “Of course,” Emma said agreeably, reaching for another breakfast roll. “I’m sure you’re right. Her dignity did indeed take quite a pummeling.”

  Although Trent believed this to be true, he didn’t for a moment think that his wife believed it, as well. There had been far too much archness in her tone earlier for easy assent now. No, his wife was up to something and merely telling him what she thought he wanted to hear. The only time she readily concurred with him was when she was devising a plan.

  “Under no circumstance are you to ask Huntly to seduce Vinnie,” Trent announced.

  Amazed, Emma stared at him. “Why on earth would I do such an outrageous thing?”

  She looked so innocent sitting there, her bright blue eyes blinking in surprise, as if she’d never done a hoydenish thing in her entire life. “Because that’s what you asked me to do.”

  “Well, of course. You’re a hardened libertine,” she explained reasonably. “I have heard no such talk about the marquess. Is he a hardened libertine?”

  He was nearly undone by the hopefulness in her voice, but he kept a straight face and demanded she abandon whatever scheme she was devising.

  “What scheme?” she asked.

  “Emma,” the duke said warningly.

  “No, really, your grace, I have no scheme. I swear it,” she said, raising a hand as if taking a pledge.

  His grace was not fooled. “You mean you don’t have a scheme yet.”

  Ever a straight shooter, she conceded this point. “I became aware of Vinnie’s remarkable dislike not twenty minutes ago. I assure you, Alex, even I am not so ramshackle as to come up with a scheme that quickly. If it’s to work, it must be well thought out and carefully planned.”

  That his wife was a thorough planner Trent knew very well from personal experience. Before breaking into the residence of her sister’s despised fiancé, an excursion on which he had been invited to go, she gathered blueprints of the house from a footman and safecracking tips from the greatest lockpick in London.

  Recalling the expedition, the duke felt a fissure of alarm, but he couldn’t say for whom—his wife, himself or the Marquess of Huntly.

  “And when you do have a scheme?” he asked, leadingly.

  “I will consult with you, of course,” she said with gratifying speed. “I would never implement a plan without your robust approval, for you are my most trusted ally.”

  It was a pretty speech, but the duke knew better than to believe a word of it. “Hogwash,” he said, although he was fully aware of the futility of belaboring the point, for his wife would do just as she pleased. If marriage had done anything to change her behavior it had merely altered the first person to whom she was obliged to explain her actions. Previously, it had been her sister-in-law and chaperone, Sarah.

  “Your faith in me is humbling,” she said with an unholy glimmer the duke found impossible to resist, and while Tupper straightened the sideboard for the dowager’s inevitable arrival in a few minutes, Trent kissed his wife with a hunger that continued to surprise him and lamented that poor Mr. Colson would have to wait on his pleasure after all.

  Chapter Four

  As soon as Lavinia glanced up from her newspaper and saw the Marquess of Huntly browsing a bookshelf at Hatchard’s (Italian poetry), she realized her impulsive outing had been a mistake and, quickly reviewing her options, settled on a furtive exit as the only reasonable solution to her unfortunate situation. The front door was a disagreeably far distance from her location, but if she walked along the far wall and if he remained near the fireplace and if all the other patrons stayed exactly where they were, she should be able to squeak by without discovery.

  The plan was not without its risks, of course, but it was better than sitting in the middle of the room like a wounded grouse in an open field.

  Very carefully, Vinnie tucked the newspaper under her arm and stood up slowly, determined to make no abrupt movements that might call attention to her person. Then, walking at what she considered to be an ideal pace—only slightly faster than the rate at which one crossed the floor at Almack’s during the height of the season—she safely arrived at the far wall. Once there, she kept her eyes trained on the shelves to her right (Elizabethan verse, Restoration comedy, Greek classics) so that Huntly, should he look over, would be presented with the back of her head, which he could not be expected to recognize on such a short acquaintance.

  She was a mere six or seven steps from successful execution when a clerk, no doubt intending to be helpful, called out, “Miss Harlow, please let me relieve you of that newspaper.”

  His tone, to be fair, was appropriately calibrated to the subdued environment of the bookstore, but to Vinnie’s ears it sounded like a great, echoing roar from the depths of a cave and had the inadvertent effect of making her clutch the newspaper tightly in her grasp. Mr. Knoll, committed to his officiousness, tried to free the broadsheet from her grip, which Vinnie resisted from surprise and confusion, and a brief tug-of-war ensued.

  “May I suggest, my good fellow, that Miss Harlow isn’t ready to surrender her reading material just yet?” Lord Huntly said smoothly.

  His appearance at the site of battle was so unexpected that the muscles in Vinnie’s fingers went slack, and poor Mr. Knoll, suddenly unopposed, tripped backward and fell. Vinnie watched in horror as Huntly helped the kindly clerk to his feet while also rescuing from the floor the offending newspaper that had caused so much fuss.

  Her face swathed in a blush, Vinnie immediately stepped forward to beg Mr. Knoll’s pardon and to assure herself that he’d suffered no lasting effects from her ill treatment of him. He of course insisted on taking all of the blame—“Miss Harlow is circumspect about returning all materials, this I know and should have permitted!”—and swore that the red mark on his wrist had been there prior to the mishap. Vinnie was inclined to argue over both matters but forestalled herself with the idea that prolonging the incident could only make it worse.

  She apologized again for the accident, commended him on his dedication to service and promised to return the periodical as soon as she was finished with it. This speech, delivered with the utmost sincerity, embarrassed Mr. Knoll so much that it was all he could do to mutter thank you in return before retaking his position behind the desk. She watched as he bent his wrist in various directions to test its effectiveness and worried that she’d done him permanent harm.

  “That will teach him to
do his job,” Huntly said.

  Vinnie, who had all but forgotten the Marquess of Huntly’s presence in her distress, felt a new flush overtake her as she acknowledged the validity of his criticism. Determined to not cower, she threw back her shoulders and faced him with as much dignity as she could muster. She told herself to look on the bright side—all the participants in the drama were dry, at least at present.

  “I must thank you, my lord, for calling me to my senses,” Vinnie said, her voice as calm and composed as she could want. “I can’t quite say what led to my unusual behavior, but my conduct was certainly wanting and I will be more conscious of it in the future.”

  The marquess nodded. “A worthy plan, I’m sure, but I hope you won’t become too conscious of it.”

  Vinnie could see the teasing glint in his eyes and even heard it in his voice, but the comment felt like a rebuke and she stiffened her shoulders, determined to bring the interview to an end. “I appreciate your service,” she said abruptly and held her hand out for the newspaper.

  Huntly drew in his brows, unsure of what she could be indicating with the gesture, then realized belatedly that he still held the broadsheet. “Oh, yes, of course,” he said, looking at the periodical, which was crumpled from abuse. “Please, let me lay it out on this table to remove the wrinkles.”

  He no sooner announced his intentions than placed the newspaper on the mahogany surface to perform the service. Vinnie’s fingers twitched with the desire to pull the paper away from him but given how poorly her last attempt at such a maneuver had gone she knew better than to try. Consequently, she had to stand there silently as red suffused her face for the third time in as many minutes while Huntly read the headline on the edition of The Times.

  She saw the look of surprise and then of pleasure dance across his face. Of course he was pleased, Lavinia thought peevishly. It was a gratifying compliment indeed that she’d sought out his article.

  “Miss Harlow, I’m flattered—”

  “The dowager asked me to retrieve it,” Vinnie said before he could finish the thought, for she couldn’t bear the notion of him thinking so highly of himself at her expense. “She wanted to refamiliarize herself with the facts of the Acacia anomala so that she could speak intelligibly on the subject with you the next time you meet.”

  Huntly’s lips might have twitched, but his expression remained somber. “Her grace asked you?” he asked.

  Vinnie knew her explanation was flimsy at best and entirely unbelievable at worst, for nobody was less likely to request such a service as the unscholarly Dowager Duchess of Trent, but she had no choice but to brazen it out. “Yes, she sends me on errands such as these all the time. Just last week, I went to Hookham’s to investigate”—she foundered for a topic and out of the corner of her eye saw poor Mr. Knoll rubbing his shoulder—“medicinal draughts of the Hellenesian peoples.”

  In fact, Vinnie was standing across from a shelf that said Hellenistic, but in her rush to come up with a believable culture she read it too quickly for accuracy.

  “The Hellenesian peoples?” he asked with mild curiosity.

  She scrambled for a locale. “Yes, from Hellenesia.”

  “Ah, yes, of course, near Polynesia?”

  Vinnie couldn’t tell if he was making fun of her or not, but she kept her face straight and stuck to her story. “Yes, you head there and make a right. You can’t miss it.”

  Huntly nodded with the same sobriety with which he had conducted the entire conversation, but there was an unholy glint in his unsettling green-blue eyes. “Well, please tell the dowager that I can’t remember when I have ever before been so complimented by someone’s interest.”

  “Oh, I’m sure the dowager didn’t mean it as a compliment, my lord,” she said crushingly. “In refreshing her memory of your article she was merely showing the diligence which she considers your due.”

  Far from being deflated by this communication, the marquess seemed more amused than ever. “Whatever the dowager’s intentions, I choose to take it as a compliment. I won’t tell her that, of course, for to do so would only embarrass her, and will instead act surprised when she proves herself to be so conversant on the topic. She will have no idea I discovered you here in the process of fulfilling her request.”

  Vinnie knew it was all a hum—the naturalist was far too clever not to realize the truth—but she appreciated his allowing her the dignity of the lie. “I won’t tell her either.”

  “Good, now tell me, what did you think of the article?” he asked, pulling out a chair. “Do please sit down. I’ve kept you standing in the middle of Hatchard’s far longer than it is polite. Blame the nearly two years at sea for my appalling manners.”

  But of course his manners were everything that were correct and proper, which made Vinnie, whose own behavior had actually been appalling, feel even more uncomfortable. The last thing she wanted to do was extend their interaction any longer than necessary, but she could think of no way to pawn off her own desire to leave on the dowager, so she complied graciously.

  Huntly sat adjacent to her at the large table, which was stacked with leather-bound volumes at the other end. As soon as they took their seats, an associate of Mr. Knoll’s cleared the table so that they could spread out their things in comfort. Vinnie assured him that she wouldn’t be staying long enough to get comfortable just as Huntly thanked him for his thoughtfulness.

  As the marquess laid out the paper, Vinnie considered how to respond to his query. In truth, she thought the article contained a lot of useful information and his description of the slender, rushlike shrub, with its small yellow flowers arranged in cylindrical spikes, was so perfectly descriptive she had a clear picture of it in her head. Indeed, if she was going to be entirely honest, she would admit privately that she had realized her impulsive outing was a mistake long before she’d glanced up and seen the marquess browsing the Italian poetry shelf; she had realized it when she discovered his beautiful writing made it impossible for her to despise him entirely.

  Vinnie knew, however, that it would never do for her to admit to such sentimentality to this man who was so used to compliments, he took them where they weren’t even offered. No doubt, he was offered plenty by women of all ages and lineages, as he had every advantage of modern manhood: He was handsome, he was wealthy, he had a fascinating occupation, he was sophisticated, he was well traveled, he had breeding, he had poise. He was insufferably rude in his perfection, which was clearly what led him to treat her so shabbily yesterday.

  Her late fiancé, Sir Waldo Windbourne, had been far from perfect. Not only was he a traitorous spy who tried to kill both her and her sister—a characteristic that had never counted to his advantage before now—he was also an intolerable windbag who could hold forth for hours on any topic he found of consuming interest. By the end of their engagement, she could little remember what she had found charming about him during their courtship, but she recalled now the hesitant little pauses he would sometimes take in the middle of his seemingly endless monologues, as if not sure of his next thought or its reception. As someone who frequently questioned herself, she’d found this trait endearing.

  It had been months since Vinnie had thought of her former fiancé with anything other than seething hatred, and that she did so now because of Huntly was another point against the marquess. It was to her merely one more example of his thoughtless rudeness.

  When Huntly was satisfied with the newspaper’s arrangement, he said, “I would appreciate your thoughts. Alex tells me you’re an accomplished botanist yourself.”

  As when anyone gave her a compliment, Vinnie’s instinct was to demur and insist she was merely a devoted hobbyist. But her modesty depended to some extent on her audience not believing her and she feared in this case, Huntly would entirely agree with her assessment, so she said, “I recently published a pamphlet providing introductory information on drainage systems.”

  It was impossible to entirely suppress the pride in her voice, and when Hun
tly smiled, she felt for sure he was mocking her pretensions. How could a man who had traveled thousands of miles to examine the world’s most exotic species be impressed with a dowdy spinster who wrote manuals on how to irrigate a garden?

  “Well, then, I’m doubly interested in your opinion,” he said.

  Vinnie nodded consideringly. “I think it’s a very fine effort, my lord. You should be pleased with yourself. The descriptions in particular are pleasingly workmanlike.”

  The marquess furrowed his brow, as if not sure what to make of this praise, which, as Vinnie intended, seemed faint at best. “Pleasingly workmanlike?”

  “Rather than rigorously scientifical, of course. That was your purpose, was it not, to make your description of the plant so bland and simple that anyone reading your article would instantly be able to imagine a familiar English plant she had in her garden, such as Delphinium elatum?” she asked disingenuously, for D. elatum, with its elegant spikes of bright blue and purple flowers, could not be any more different from Acacia anomala. Indeed, comparing one with the other was like saying a strawberry looked like a banana.

  “Delphinium elatum, did you say?” he asked, confounded. “My description of the South Seas plant put you in mind of larkspur?”

  “Exactly as you had intended,” she said admiringly. “I thought it was very clever of you to leave out truly useful information such as measurements of the stamen and moisture level of the soil, for to do so would have confused readers, who only want to be assured that you are discovering new things. They do not require that you make those things known to them in a useful way. Truly, I think it’s the veriest piece of populist botanicalesque journalism I’ve ever read.”

  The marquess was silent for a few moments, then he said, “Pardon me, but I’m not familiar with the term botanicalesque.”

  Vinnie trilled happily, as if charmed by his ignorance, though in truth he could not know what the word meant, for she had made it up on the spot. “It’s a way of describing something that is close in nature to proper botanical study but not quite there. You see it used all the time in the journal of the British Horticultural Society, though there it is frequently used as a criticism and here I intend it as a compliment.”